


first law of motion

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Baggage, M/M, Married Shiro/Curtis, Mutual Pining, Post Season 8, but with..., well shit that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: After the war, there are negotiations to be had. Intergalactic, diplomatic ones. Oh, and personal ones.Or, Curtis proposes a threesome to celebrate his and Shiro's anniversary, and has no idea what he'll unlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [futuredescending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/gifts).



Shiro yawns as he walks back home, head crammed with too many details of agendas and Hunk’s menu and seating arrangements and governmental structures of a hundred different galaxies, all to be crammed in nine days.

Sighing, he places his Altean hand on the front door’s panel and hearing multiple locks slide away. Inside, there’s a faint glow of golden light, coming from the front room.

Curtis is waiting for him, two glasses of whiskey sitting on the coffee table, next to the stacks of comic books and Garrison paperwork. His husband is not in his uniform, only a t-shirt and sweatpants, a sign that he’s done for the day.

Normally, Shiro would assume that this was A Seduction, something about Curtis that was refreshingly free of the Garrison coy wink-nudge- _meet me in the storage closet at 23:00_ workaround. (He hadn’t quite gotten it until Matt made a joke about it, and to Shiro’s humiliation, realized that he’d missed many of these hints since his first week at the Garrison.)

Especially now, he preferred straight-forwardness. No games. No need to dissect every eye movement and weight shift. Nothing left for uncertainty. He had liked that in Adam, in Keith, in—

No. Shiro turns his attention to the whiskey glasses. Not wine. And no candles, no lack of clothes.

This was a talk.

“What’s the occasion?” Shiro cautiously asks, removing his jacket before sitting next to him.

Curtis clears his throat, strangely nervous. “Well.” His gaze goes down to his hands, folded his lap like he’s beginning a lecture. “I was thinking…our anniversary is coming up, so something special is in order.”

Shiro blinks. “Like a vacation?”

 “You’ve been working so hard lately,” Curtis says, “but we don’t have time to go on a big vacation, not with the peace talks coming up.”

“You’re right,” Shiro says, a little disappointed. “What’s the plan, then? Dinner at a fancy restaurant?”

Curtis reaches across the table, playing with his fingers. “No. Well, if you want to. But I was thinking along the lines of…spicing things up a little.”

Intrigued, Shiro raises his eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

To no one’s surprise, Curtis pulls out a list. The top paragraph looks like an objective proposal, a familiar staple in Garrison reports. “I broke down some trends, some old favorites.”

Shiro wonders if he also made a spreadsheet, data collected from various magazines left in the Garrison’s medical bay or searched it on his computer.

He hopes Curtis used incognito mode.

“Something different, yet a bit traditional,” Curtis continues, “and I landed on bringing someone to the bedroom with us.”

“In the bedroom,” Shiro echoes, like a language he’s barely understanding.

“Yeah,” Curtis says casually, “if you’re open to that.” Now, he looks a little nervous. “I have…someone in mind. Someone we both know.”

“Yeah?” Shiro repeats. _Please don’t be Griffin. Or Matt. Or god forbid, Iverson—_

“Keith.”

And that is—that is—

“Why Keith?” Shiro manages to ask, after what feels like an eternity later.

“Well,” Curtis says logically, “I figure we would want to both do it with someone we implicitly trust, and definitely someone not in Garrison or some random stranger. We’re both only interested in men, which leaves us with Keith, Lance, and Hunk. Hunk…never really seemed interested in any of us. Lance is with Allura—and sorry, don’t think he’s your type. Unless I’m wrong.” Shiro shakes his head. “Anyway, it seems too convoluted to ask a couple, especially a back-from-the-dead Altean princess. So, that leaves Keith.”

Because _that_ makes sense. “Keith?” he repeats.

“I mean, you go way back, so that’s a plus,” Curtis says. “And I know him—sort of—too. And out of everyone, it seems like he won’t tell anyone. But I don’t know; you know him better than I do. What do you think?”

“I…” Shiro stutters. Tries to get his brain online. “Uh.”

 “Are you okay with this?” Curtis asks, concerned, fingers clutching around the whiskey glass. “It was just a thought. I don’t want this to be weird for you. Either of you.”

“No,” Shiro says weakly, feeling very far away. “No. I just…need to ask.”

_Ask._

He raises his own whiskey, albeit weakly. “To our anniversary.”

Curtis clinks his glass against Shiro’s. “Sounds good to me.”

And with one swallow, Shiro downs the entire glass.

* * *

 

The next time Keith comes to town—technically, on a conference call—it’s for a brief rundown before the actual talks, and Shiro’s never been more distracted in a meeting.

And it’s Curtis’s fault that Shiro’s staring.

And that he’s noticing little things—the wisps of hair coming out from Keith’s braid, the occasional furrow between Keith’s brows, the almost too-sharp line of Keith’s chin, the slightly restless tapping of Keith’s fingers. He’s still in his Blade uniform, and occasionally, his eyes flicker to his lap or to the side, undoubtedly getting fed alerts from the network Pidge helped set up.

His eyes are the ones that Shiro notices the most—firing like a spark when talking about a new peace initiative, a softness when he mentions an orphanage of kids whose parents were killed by the Galra, a slight flicker of a fight when someone sasses him.

But he’s calmer than Shiro remembers, a fire tempered, with confidence built in every inch of his straightened spine and low voice.

Across the table, Curtis keeps glancing at Keith, so often that Shiro’s tempted to kick him.

Thankfully, no one seems to notice, but Shiro wonders if his husband’s noticing the same things about Keith that he is. There’s a slight quirk to his mouth whenever he catches Shiro looking at the screen with more than politeness, a raise of an eyebrow when Keith drops the clicker during his presentation and bends down to retrieve it, and once, a wink, when Iverson innocently mentions _diplomatic relations._

Finally, finally, the meeting ends—“This could have been an e-mail,” Lance mutters under his breath, to which Allura frowns at him before the connection ends—and everyone stands up, heading out into the hallway.

“Keith,” Curtis begins, before Keith can sign off. “How have you been doing?”

Keith blinks, confused, and Shiro painfully remembers that Keith and his husband haven’t really interacted outside of the Garrison. Or Atlas. Or even at the wedding. “I’m good,” he says at last. “You?”

“Great,” Curtis says cheerfully. “So, you’ll be in town for the peace talks? How long are you staying?”

“Until it ends, give or take a few days.” Keith looks even more confused. This is probably the most they’ve talked to each other. Oh, hell.

Curtis doesn’t seem to notice. “You and Shiro can catch up, then. Do you like Italian? There’s this nice one by the Garrison, a hole-in-the-wall, but good pasta-stuffed shells, tiramisu, private booths…”

A pit starts sinking in Shiro’s stomach, like a ship being pulled into orbit—no, a black hole. “Curtis—”

“That sounds nice,” Keith says. He still looks confused, but is rolling with it. “Yeah.”

“Great,” Curtis says, sounding too eager, “see you around!”  

Shiro’s Altean hand leaps, fingers pressing hard on the DISCONNECT button, and with a “wait, what” from Keith, the screen goes dark.

Curtis turns to him, bemused. “Uh, Shiro? What was that?”

“You can’t ask him through _video call,”_ Shiro nearly whispers.

“I wasn’t! I was going to hint at it, then you bring it up after some good food and wine. Unless you think you should ask in private? Or I come with you?”

“I…” Shiro’s brain’s is slowly collapsing like a slow-motion supernova. “You do realize I haven’t done this before.”

“Neither have I,” Curtis says calmly. “But look, if you don’t want to—”

“I do!” Shiro blurts out, too loudly.

For too long, they stare at each other, and Shiro coughs. “Look. I’ll bring it up to him. By myself. That way, he’s not being put on the spot—he hates that.”

Curtis pats his shoulder. “See? You know Keith better than I do, and this’ll make it better. Besides,” he comes closer, fingers drifting to Shiro’s hips. “I like you taking in charge.”

“Do you?” Shiro breathes, remembering they’re alone, in a small room, with the lights off and the door closed.

“I do,” Curtis says, voice and hands lowering, warm breath on Shiro’s ear. _“Captain.”_

* * *

 Later, Pidge glares at him when Shiro stops by the lab, and Shiro resigns himself to being her guinea pig for the next few weeks so she doesn’t tell Matt.

* * *

 “So,” Shiro says, once he’s absolutely sure that he’s alone in his house—and that the security cameras are muted, “Curtis wants to sleep with you.”

“ _What_?” Keith yells, and Shiro pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing.

“I mean, not just him. Me.” All he hears now is dead air. Shit. “Um. I thought I should…run it by you…first,” Shiro continues weakly.

He wants to die. And he’s sure this counts as cowardice, using technology as a buffer—though Shiro’s somewhat glad he can’t see Keith’s face.

 _Though,_ Matt’s voice says in his head,  _if you can’t say it, maybe you shouldn’t do it._

“Is this why you two are taking me to an Italian restaurant?” Keith’s voice sounds like he’s been kicked hard in the stomach. God, Shiro hopes he doesn’t faint on him. “When did—how did…”

Oh, God, this is getting bad to worse. “Curtis and I—well, we’re trying to…” He tries to think of something he wouldn’t be embarrassed to say out loud. Oh, hell. “Try something new.”

“And you decided on a _threesome_?”

Hearing that word come from Keith makes Shiro feel ashamed, somehow, this reality crashing down onto him all at once. “It was Curtis’s idea,” he says weakly.

“And you’re just going with it?”

Shiro sputters. “I’m not just…I was…there’s a reason why I asked.”

An awkward silence.

“Right.” Keith says. “I’ll think about it.”

“You will?” Shiro asks stupidly. The fact that Keith isn’t immediately saying  _no_ does things to his stomach. “I mean, great. Cool. Uh, see you.”

When Shiro hangs up, he pours himself another drink.

* * *

 Keith still hasn’t gotten back to him.

“Maybe he’s still mulling it over,” Curtis says later that night, strangely calm for someone whose idea was this is in the first place. He turns the page of the latest graphic novel Pidge had shoved into their hands—part of that _Killbot Phantasm_ franchise.

Shiro’s sitting up in bed, listlessly watching another late-night entertainment show without really paying attention. He thinks Kinkade’s there to debut his latest independent film, along with someone from Hunk's culinary diplomacy group demonstrating a Drazan recipe. “Maybe.”

“Look, even if it doesn’t work out, we can still go to dinner,” Curtis says, eyes still intent on his book, almost obsessive for a franchise that seems to be solely consisted of giant robots punching each other. “Just relax. He didn’t say no, right?”

“Right,” Shiro echoes.

“Everything will be fine,” Curtis says reassuringly.

* * *

Everything is not fine.

Shiro gets messages from Lance, Allura, Pidge, Iverson, Matt, a few of the Atlas crew, Curtis, Hunk, everyone in the entire galaxy and more—and not from Keith.

He even gets one from Rolo. _Rolo._

He thinks about contacting Keith, but what can he really say? And there’s no roundabout way of contacting someone who knows Keith, like any of the Blades, because he’s sure Kolivan or Axca or god forbid, Krolia, will lead him to nothing but unmitigated disaster.

_Hi, Krolia, just wanted to check in and see how many delegates from Daizabaal are coming. Oh, right, just the number we agreed upon months ago? Why do I ask? Well—_

Shiro’s not looking forward to losing his other arm.

His Altean arm, on one hand, seems to be malfunctioning. It keeps tapping its fingers on every surface he sits down at, buzzing with the urgency of a phone on New Year’s Eve, and once, smacking James Griffin full in the face during a strategy meeting.

When Sam checks him over, he prods the crystal and the machinery and frowns. “There doesn’t seem to be any mechanical failing. It seems like—hm, a nervous tic of sorts. Have you been feeling stressed?”

Shiro blinks. “Stressed? You can say that.”

Sam pats his shoulder. “It’s the conference, isn’t it? Try to relax, then. Or talk to one of the Garrison therapists. Or your husband.”

“My husband,” Shiro says, “yes, my husband.”

* * *

More meetings. 

Shiro remembers the late-night sessions, the telecoms with various world and planetary officials, the jugs of coffee, Coran’s team-building exercises which included rubber balls and trust falls, how many steps it took to navigate through his house without waking up Curtis.

And he also remembers the night when he came home, hands shaking, to tell his husband that somehow, he was the official ambassador of planet Earth.

 _What better person to represent us?_ Curtis had said cheerfully. _You’re the best of Earth, what we strive to be._

 _I’m not_ , Shiro had thought. This is a placeholder, a consolation prize for no longer being a paladin of Voltron. Everyone was flitting across the universe on some grand quest, in the field itself, out among the stars—not stuck on Earth.

(This wasn’t fair, though. Hadn’t he wanted to go to back to Earth for years?

 _Home_ , he reminded himself, not for the first time. But it seemed like a promise repeated too much—so much that it had lost any meaning. _Home. Home._ )

But with one look at his husband’s proud smile, Shiro couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t voice the doubts, the flaws in him Curtis had yet to see. 

That night, his dreams that night are muddled, formed and unformed all at once.

Curtis and him in white tuxedos. Their first date at Clear Day, throwing rings around tiny bowls with fish the size of his fingernails. The gold band around his arm, _the Champion._

The arena filled with guttural roars, warm blood dripping off his fingers. Him floating in the endless starlight of Black’s consciousness. Orange and pink sunsets seeping into deep ridges of canyons.

Searing pain in his side, glowing purple, sweat sticking the wayward tuft of white to his forehead.

A light touch on his shoulder. _I’m glad you’re back._

Shiro wakes up, grappling for his datapad.

The screen blinks _0415._ Curtis is snoring softly beside him. And there are no new messages.

With a sigh, Shiro slowly lowers his head back onto the pillow. Closes his eyes. Tries to sleep.

* * *

Two days.

No answer.

* * *

His head’s buzzing with too many things, too many names, too many distractions, and he can’t _sleep_.

If only he can close his eyes and be out like a light, like Curtis, but that’s never been easy, even before his first foray into space. And of course, after, curling up in the corner of his cell, protecting his vital areas, memories of Earth gradually fading away in the endless beat of survival. Then, doing push-ups in his cramped quarters or pacing the Castle at night, staring into the strange and endless constellations.

Then, nothing _but_ sleep, floating in the ether and talking to himself, to Black, to no one in particular, with no hope of coming back this time—

“Still awake?”

Shiro groans, closing his eyes, ready to give up. “Yeah.”

“Are you tired?” A hand slides up and down his arm, fingers teasing, and Shiro rolls over, smirking.

“Not _that_ tired,” he says, and gives himself to those familiar hands, arching in the dark, underneath the covers, everything forgotten but warm heat and sparks dancing underneath his skin, lips tracing the scars on his chest, the hinge where his arm met flesh—

Wait.

When he opens his eyes, _Keith_ is the one looking at him, eyes intense, hair falling over his eyes, teeth bared in a grin—

And with a gasp, Shiro wakes up.

“You okay, Shiro?” Curtis sleepily asks beside him, blessedly unaware.

Just then, his datapad lights up. A new message. From Keith.

_About yours and Curtis’s proposal…I’m in._

Shiro can only stare at the ceiling.

It is now the day of the conference.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I’m okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Contrary to popular belief—or speculations of the press—Shiro was the one who proposed.

He and Curtis had only gone out for a few months, but he felt this was  _right._ The Holts were buried in their work at the Garrison, establishing the next generation of legendary defenders and the technology they require. Lance and Coran were rebuilding Altea across the galaxy. Hunk and Romelle and Shay had put their heads together to establish a culinary diplomacy chain. And Keith—

Keith wasn’t here.

It was Curtis who pulled him from the tedium, in small, subtle ways. Yes, he saluted and called Shiro by his title in public, but it was somehow devoid of anything  _expectant_. He did his duty, a good soldier, but he also made a life outside the Garrison, the work, the missions—something Shiro was never good at.

Shiro got invited to video game battles, to trivia nights, to just meandering around the area outside of the Garrison. They danced in clubs that they had to shout over the music in, or learned box steps from a man who used to be a professional ballroom dancer. There were restaurants where they shared whatever was on special, movies where there were mindless explosions and witty banter, shops where they didn't buy anything but had fun killing time in. 

And yes, they had sex—something that was admittedly far-and-in-between in space—non-existent with anyone other than his hand. Even with the door locked, he kept quiet to make sure the paladins—or Coran, which was horrifying in and of itself—couldn’t hear him, clenching in teeth to only let a small hiss escape.

He’d missed being touched, he knows, but more than that. He missed having nothing but himself to offer. Being liked without any strings attached. Being cared for.

Curtis filled the spaces. He makes Shiro happy—feel something other than uselessness or worry—or worse, complete apathy.

So Shiro decided to leap, to hold the happiness close to his chest and never, never let it go.

* * *

He told Curtis he doesn’t want to wait, that he doesn’t care about the pomp and circumstance and the crowds and show. To be honest, he would have eloped if given the option.

But Curtis had talked him out of it, gently citing his friends, their colleagues, the world. To Shiro, it felt unnecessary—an obligation, even—yet Curtis looked so happy that Shiro ended up saying yes.

It became a galaxy-wide celebration—people still needed a cheer-up after the war—responsibilities that Shiro tried to stay out of as much as possible. He shrugged off the guest list (he had no one to stand for him), the flowers and centerpieces and colors (he nixes red, though), the location (it ended up being on Earth, even though Coran offered Altea).

After a long time of indecision, though, he chose Lance as his best man, who looked confused but accepted anyway, much to Shiro's relief.

Lance was the one who planned the bachelor party, with copious amounts of alcohol and wandering around the tiny town near the Garrison.

Keith wasn’t there—away on a Blades mission.

In the morning, Lance had woken him up with a gentle shake to the shoulder, but something in his face had changed, different from the usual bittersweet smile— _Allura_ , Shiro knew—when Shiro stumbled from the couch and automatically began the process of brewing coffee, head pounding.

“Do you remember anything, by chance?” Lance finally asked once Shiro devoured a stack of pancakes, made from Lance's endless pantry of food that rivaled his bathroom cabinet. 

“No,” Shiro said. “Should I?”

Lance frowned. “Are you  _sure_?”

“What did I do?” Shiro asks, racking his brain. He remembered Matt making up a dirty version of the Garrison pledge. The old man from their dance class buying them a round. Falling from something—flat on his face. “Really, Lance, what?”

Lance hesitated. “Nothing you have to worry about, I guess.” He took a sip of his coffee,  then reached over to pat Shiro on the shoulder. “But I’m here if you need to talk, okay?”

* * *

When he and Curtis kissed, Shiro thought,  _Finally._

The crowd behind them cheered. He heard Hunk crying into Coran’s shoulder. Cameras clicked and whirled. 

The night was a whirlwind of dancing and drinks and laughter. Making his rounds—hi,  _thank you for coming_ —Shiro nodded to everyone, trying to find Curtis to suggest they leave early—or at least find some privacy—when he saw Keith.

Keith, in a white tuxedo and dark hair thrown over his shoulder. Keith, hanging by one of the drink tables. Keith, who—

“You came,” Shiro said stupidly.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Keith replied. He plucked at the cuffs at his sleeve. “Sorry I missed your party.”

“Yeah,” Shiro said. Already, he’d run out of things to say, and something twisted in his gut. This used to be  _easy._ What had happened? “How have you been?”

Keith shrugged. “Just with the Blades. Reconnaissance. Putting out fires. The occasional diplomatic mission.” He wasn't looking at Shiro, hadn't, Shiro realized, since they saw each other. “What about you? Besides getting married, I guess.”

“Nothing much,” Shiro said, then felt that prickle set inside his head again. His life was so small compared to everyone else’s. Tiny. Useless.

What is he doing? What has he been doing?

 _It’s over,_ he tells himself.  _It’s peace._ He can’t be so fucked up that he doesn’t want peace, does he?

Nothing you can help with. Nothing you can do, any longer. It’s over for you.

“Shiro?” Keith asked, placing a hand on his arm, and the weight of it sent Shiro back, back to everything, back to this.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Guess—too much to drink.” Awkwardly, he pulled away, looked away—for what, he didn’t know. “Thanks for coming.”

* * *

They traveled to Japan for their honeymoon—first class seats, glass flutes of golden champagne, the whole nine yards—and once they touched down, Shiro felt a weight lift off his chest like a balloon.

At first, Shiro thought it was because they were finally, finally having time to themselves—but it dawned on him outside the hotel or any place he has to show his ID that no one seems to care who he is—or know, really. He looked like any stupid American tourist, wearing a baseball cap of a team he doesn’t know but got at the airport to keep the sun off his face, with a set of cotton shorts and a white t-shirt.

They got lost on the metro, went to Studio Ghibli and ramen museums, visited cat cafes, punched every button in the public toilets, made utter fools of themselves at karaoke bars, loaded their arms with shopping bags in Asakusa, took pictures in front of the Tokyo Tower and the giant Buddha, gaped at the vending machines stuffed with soups and socks and games, tried on various costumes (and buy out almost half the aisle at Condommania) in Harajuku, ate everything in sight, and drank their weight—and then some—in copious amounts of sake that spread the warmth from his throat to his chest, to his fingertips, everywhere.

They fed each other taiyaki with sticky fingers, once smearing the custard across each other’s noses. They laid next to each other in steaming baths and sweet-smelling massage tables and the cool sheets in their hotel room. They spent days just exploring, whether it be in a bustling city or a quiet mountainous sanctuary—just  _being—a_ nd Shiro reveled in the peace, the anonymity, the fact that no one recognizes (or is too polite to say so) a captain or former paladin or anyone other than an American tourist with his new husband.

One of their last days fell in line with the National Cherry Blossom Festival. They took selfies underneath the frothy trees, shoulders covered in tiny pink flowers and faces beaming at the camera, then dig into barbeque that’s tangy and sticky and chewy, trading childhood stories and laughing over Curtis’s mangled rendition of a Japanese pop song and scheming on how to take all of their souvenirs back to America.

People were stretched underneath the trees or sitting on cool stone benches with a wide array of dishes spread like a giant picnic, resting in colorful plastic boxes, on thin wooden skewers, or on simple paper trays. Jugs and bottles were flowing, flushed red faces, from young, giddy students to chuckling old men all around. There was the occasional raucous cheer, fits of laughter, and Shiro drank in the sea of warm, bubbly cheer.

When shadows began to form, he and Curtis took one last stroll through the park, hand in hand. Flowers fell on them like snow, and lanterns along the lake and bridge glowed softly. Frothy branches were ethereal in the pink and orange and gold sunset, dipping into the calm water below.

Shiro stood at the railing, leaning over to take it all in. “I don’t ever want to leave,” he said, and it was the honest thing he’s said in a while.

“I know,” Curtis replied, putting a hand over his. “But it has to end sometime.”

 _No,_ Shiro thought, with a sudden—almost ridiculous—swell of panic.  _Why does it have to? Why does it always have to end?_

He didn’t want to go back, back to the Garrison where there are expectations and restrictions and people passing him by. He didn’t want to see the uniforms and medals and gravestones. He didn’t even want to look at his datapad, which has been mostly off the entire trip, likely filled to the brim with messages.

_How are you? Are you having fun? When will you be back? Send us pictures._

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess it does.”

* * *

When Shiro gots back, he thought this:  _I’ve made a mistake._

He shouldn’t have come back.

But it was too late to do anything about it. So he threw himself into work, into married life, into  _something_ that will keep him busy.

He buried himself, just like before, just like when he told himself that he was more,  _could be more,_ than his disease—that when people looked at him, they would see someone other than the man who was supposed to degenerate at twenty. Who shouldn’t be alive, not in a way anyone was comfortable with.

People still move on, though, without his help.

The Holts build newer and newer machines, databases, methods of survival.

The Blades rebuild planets.

Lance even found Allura, his Altean marks—marks of the chosen, Allura and Lotor had received—leading him to her, with the lions’ aid. 

(At night, Shiro still dreamed of his hands on controls, the gentle but fierce presence in his head, the possibilities.)    

He needed a purpose, and one day, it was given to him. The world was at peace, yes, but it still needed help getting there—and since Shiro was working so hard, so diligently—and he was a war hero, after all—would he like to be the representative of Earth?

This time, it was Shiro who said yes.


	3. Chapter 3

Keith tells himself that he just wants to make a good first impression, which is why he spends nearly two hours getting ready for tonight’s welcome banquet.

 _This is ridiculous,_ Keith thinks, standing in front of the ship’s mirror. The Blade uniforms are pretty much identical anyway, ceremonial sashes are simply not flattering on him, and there’s only so many times he can wash his face. Any more time in the bathroom, he’d be Lance.

Lance, who already has his happy ending. Lance, who rarely visits Earth because of Allura and Altea, not because of some stupid, high school-level avoidance tactic.

Lance, who definitely would not get himself into the level of mess Keith’s walked into.

His life has never been easy, but he can say that a lot of it was out of his control. His mom leaving. His dad’s death. Him being part alien. Shiro going missing—twice. (Though, he can admit that being kicked out of the Garrison was partly his fault.) Being chosen for Voltron. The war.

But this—this was pretty much all his choice. To come back to Earth as a representative of the Galra. To see Shiro again, after all these years. To—

Keith takes a deep breath, sighs. _Let’s get this over with._

* * *

Keith walks in alone, trying not to feel like he’s stepping into the first day of school all over again.

He receives a badge, for identification and access to certain meeting rooms in the Garrison, and a puzzled look from the worker taking down his name. It takes a few awkward avoidances from strangers and uneasy smiles to realize why.

No one else is wearing armor, or has weapons strapped to their body—at least openly.

Keith sighs, wondering if he should go back to the ship and change when he hears a familiar voice shout, “Keith! Buddy!”

Other than his Altean marks, Lance hasn’t changed, full-on sprinting across the hall to give Keith a gasp-inducing hug and an exuberant “Welcome back to Earth! Are you seriously wearing a _rmor_ to a reunion?”

Allura is more dignified, solemnly smiling in her silver-and-periwinkle robes, but he easily feels the affection when she embraces him, murmuring, “Ambassador. It’s good to finally see you in person.”

“Queen of Altea,” Keith dryly replies. Her hair’s pulled back in a familiar bun-and-braid combination, but instead of a circlet, there’s a proper crown—delicate gold strands weaving around five crystals, their paladin colors. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by to visit. How’s Altea?”

Allura beams, gesturing for him to follow them to their table. Keith notices that Lance and Allura are in matching colors, complete with a gauzy, light blue sash—for Altea or the lion they shared, he doesn’t know—and he feels that familiar pang of envy again.

 “The rebuilding is moving fast. Coran is beside himself, trying to build a new castleship, among other things, with the other Alteans and volunteer defenders. Matt’s even dropped by a few times, though I think it’s an excuse to see Romelle.”

“Matt flirts with anything that moves,” Keith says, remembering a plethora of horrible, space-themed pick-up lines and waggling eyebrows, particularly in the days leading up to the Garrison’s homecoming ball. He takes his seat, recognizing nunvill and, funny enough, pizza rolls lining the table.

“You didn’t mention the cool part,” Lance says, nudging Allura lightly in the side before pulling out a chair for her. “They want a statue of Allura.”

Allura flushes dark red as she sits down. “Oh, no.”

 “Oh, yes,” Lance says. “Help me out, Keith—she definitely deserves a statue, right?”

“I think it should be up to Allura,” Keith replies diplomatically. “I mean, I wouldn’t want a statue of me in Daibazaal.”

“A statue?” an amused voice says behind them, and Keith turns to see a familiar face, bedecked in a black-and-white uniform with glittering brass buttons, his hair the color of starlight.

“Shiro,” he says, somewhat stupidly. It’s different from seeing him on a screen—way different.

“Keith,” Shiro replies, looking just as surprised as Keith feels. “You’re…taller.”

Keith blinks. “Uh, thanks.”

Awkwardly, Shiro points to Keith’s braid with his Altean hand. “And your hair’s longer.”

“I’m thinking about cutting it. Too easy to grab in a battle.”

“It’s nice,” Shiro says, scratching the back of his neck. “Long hair, uh, suits you. But if it’s too dangerous, then yeah. Keep yourself safe.”

“I’m safe enough. How’s Earth?” 

“Earth? Oh. Well, mostly restructuring at this point.” Finally, Shiro turns to Allura and Lance at last, who’re exchanging one of those looks that Keith can’t read, the _couple telepathy,_ as Hunk likes to joke. “P—Queen Allura. Lance. Good to see you.”

Shiro’s then caught in a hugging fest.

“We missed you,” Allura says. “It’s lovely to see everyone come together like this. Peace won’t be easy, but these are our first steps. But for tonight,” Allura adds, with a light touch to Shiro’s arm. “Let’s catch up.”

Luckily, they’re all at the same table, with Hunk popping out of the kitchen for a few minutes to say hello. Keith wishes he and Pidge were able to join them, but Shiro reassures everyone that there’ll be plenty of free time for people to mingle.

Even though Shiro’s face is nothing but innocent, Keith takes a gulp of nunvill. Right. _Mingle_.  

The conversation meanders to more updates, and when Allura asks how Daibazaal is doing, Keith sighs, rubbing his head. “They’re still trying to find a leader, something that’s taking a while. Names are being tossed around.”

“Including yours?” Allura shrewdly asks.

“I hope not,” Keith says honestly. “I think it should be Kolivan or Krolia. Besides, some of them still don’t take well to the fact I’m…not full-Galra.”

“That shouldn’t matter,” Lance says, covering his mouth so no one has to see the contents of an alien dish—Keith’s not sure where it’s from, but they look like empanadas in neon-green sauce—being chewed.

“Well, they’re still…rigid about those things,” Keith says, then hesitates before adding, “The last half-blood Galra leader didn’t exactly turn out so well.”

Allura winces, and Lance reaches for her hand, squeezing.

“Lance is right. That doesn’t mean anything,” Shiro interjects. “I think you’ll be a great leader.”

Keith looks away, feeling stung for some indescribable reason. “Thanks. But I like where I am. I don’t want to live in Daibazaal for most of my life.”

“Don’t tell me you miss Earth,” Shiro says, seemingly teasingly, but there’s an undercurrent of resentment underneath it—something that Allura and Lance obviously detect, given that they’re now hyper-focused on their plates. “It’s not like you’ve been back for a while.”

Keith stiffens in his seat, then shoots back, words flinging out like a blow, “Maybe. But it’s better than being stuck in one place.”  

In response, Shiro flinches, his fingers tightening around a glass, and Keith stares back unflinchingly. Around them, people are still chatting merrily, not noticing the change of atmosphere at their table, like all the air being sucked away. It’s like that gas planet, Keith thinks, the one where Zethrid pressed a gun to his head and Shiro did absolutely nothing. Didn’t even call out for help, for negotiations. Didn’t lift a finger when Hunk and Veronica pulled him to his feet, covered his mouth and nose with an oxygen mask, told him to breathe, to not close his eyes.

 _I crossed the universe for you, several times,_ Keith had thought in that hospital bed, trying to breathe without feeling as if his lungs weren’t crushed. _I thought you’d at least do the same for me._

“Well,” Allura interrupts gently. “We all have our different paths.”

“Keith’s right, though,” Shiro mutters. “I haven’t been out there. He didn’t say what isn’t true.” He picks up his fork, stabs at a stray piece of lettuce, conversation clearly over.

Keith pushes away his own plate, stands up, refusing to look at anyone. “Be right back.”

_Fuck._

This used to be easy. The biggest argument they had was—another lifetime ago, back when Keith was reluctant to take the reins of the Black Lion. When Shiro wasn’t even himself. And if that didn’t count—he can’t remember. There had been spats and avoided conversations—about Shiro’s illness, about Keith’s past, about the Galra, about the intergalactic war—at Garrison and in space, but nothing like this.

Keith ends up wandering outside, breathing in the chill night air and looking up the stars. It’s either that, or go into the bathroom and hide, like he’d been stood up at prom.

Shiro had caught him in one of the stalls, once, after a particularly bad day. Griffin had run his mouth about his parents again, he was sure he bombed two of his exams from that day, and it was close to the anniversary of his dad’s death. He’d squeezed Keith’s shoulder, pulled him into a hug, so tightly that the buttons of his uniform pressed into Keith’s cheek, but Keith didn’t care.

 _You can do this,_ Shiro told him. _Why? Because you’re the strongest person I know._

_That’s you, though. Not me._

Shiro had laughed, but Keith couldn’t see his face, still buried into Shiro’s jacket. _No. You’re stronger. Trust me._

* * *

Keith manages to make himself go back inside, back to the table, and sees Curtis, bent over Shiro’s seat to kiss him on the cheek, trying to take in this man objectively. He isn’t bad-looking, toned and with ice-blue eyes, shaggy brown hair nearly falling in his eyes. Like Shiro, his eyes are marred by dark shadows from lack of sleep, but there’s a gentle curve to his mouth, like a dolphin’s.

Not like Keith’s mouth, twisted downwards, a “resting bitch face,” as Lance likes to put it. Curtis looks like the guy who will hold the closing elevator door for you, and Keith looks like the kind who would frantically jab the CLOSE DOORS button. There’s open kindness in Curtis’s face, even now, and it makes Keith jealous.

He can never be like that—never could.

And now, Shiro’s smiling at Curtis, so softly.

 _He’s Curtis’s_ , Keith reminds himself. _Not yours. Never yours._

“Keith,” Curtis says, glancing upwards. “Nice to see you.” And he sounds like he means it—whether Curtis is simply friendly or eager to get into his pants—s _top it_ —

“Yeah, nice to see you.” Keith watches Curtis slip casually into the empty chair next to Shiro, and reluctantly takes his own seat.

The rest of the banquet passes by too slowly. There are welcome speeches, a sweep of desserts, stilted small talk that Keith’s sure everyone will forget once they get home.

And Keith can’t help notice Shiro’s looking at him like he did while trying to solve particularly difficult astrophysics problem—chewing on his pencil thoughtfully and eyes narrowed in concentration to work the numbers into something that makes sense.

He’s not sure if he likes it.

Finally, it comes to an end. They all stand up, say their good-byes, Shiro’s lips stretched in a thin smile when he looks at Keith. Allura and Lance hug everyone again, and when Lance hugs him, he pats Keith’s shoulder once, in solidarity.

Curtis has his arm around Shiro, holding him close, and Keith manages a nod before stumbling back to his ship.

* * *

He remembers what he saw in the quantum abyss.

An orange-and-pink sunset. A white tuxedo, matching hair, and grey eyes, so tender. That face leaning in for a kiss…

He hadn’t gotten up right away, even when he knew Krolia would be waking up soon, joy floating in his chest. It was almost easy to forget the mysterious planet, the eerily-glowing glass tubes, the shadow of Shiro snarling, teeth bared in foreign hatred. 

Of course, Keith was prepared to fight, but he held onto that vision for as long as he could, that there would be a happy ending, after all of this.

Was he wrong.

He admits that was his fault, too—letting this happen.

Now, it’s too late.


	4. Chapter 4

The walk back home is completely silent.

Curtis doesn’t seem to notice, arm loosely draped around Shiro’s waist, seemingly content. But inside Shiro’s head, thoughts are swirling and spiraling, circling around Keith. Keith, who looks so different from the skinny kid whose cadet uniform hung on his frame, even from spitfire in his paladin uniform and bangs nearly covering his eyes. Keith, who he hasn’t seen in years, except through business-related, almost obligatory comm calls. Keith, who’s always known how to hurt him but never has—until tonight.

The old Shiro would brush it aside. _We haven’t been face-to-face in so long. It’s an adjustment period. Hiccups are to be expected._ But Keith’s comment struck a nerve that had been on his mind for years—and now, out in the open.

_Stuck. Washed-out. You’re done._

Almost in a daze, Shiro steps inside, and he can feel Curtis’s hand rubbing his shoulder in soothing circles. “It’s late. You should get some rest before the big day.”

“I know,” Shiro says. Curtis is right; the summit officially begins near dawn, and it’s almost the next day already, not to mention that the pounding in his head—which he excuses as lingering effects of the nunvill—may go away after a good night’s sleep.

Instead, he goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it. He begins pawing through the cabinets, fingers closing around the neck of a whiskey bottle, the same they’d drank together when Curtis made his proposition.  

“Shiro?” Curtis’s voice is concerned, soft. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to bed? You have meetings all day, Shiro. You’ll be exhausted.”

“I know,” Shiro repeats. He then sighs. “Just go to sleep. I’ll be there in a bit.”

He isn’t. Instead, Shiro pours himself a glass, takes a sip, winces at the taste. He’s never been a big drinker, but isn’t drowning one’s sorrows alone at night a thing people are supposed to do at least once? He tries to down the rest, but ends up spitting it back into the glass, a bit of it dribbling onto the front of his uniform in the process.

Pouring the rest of it down the sink, he fills the kettle with water from the faucet and turns one of the burner on, the soft _click click click_ and short burst of blue flame soothing. Shiro paces the kitchen, rearranges some things on the counter, opens the fridge again. He sits down on the couch, debates turning on the TV, then decides against it, not wanting to wake Curtis. The keys to his hoverbike are hanging near the door, but it doesn’t seem like the best idea now.

The water boils, and Shiro pours it into a mug—a standard grey Galaxy Garrison one of them had taken from the officer’s lounge. The chamomile is strong, floral and almost savory, and he closes his eyes, trying to breathe in and out, remembering his old exercises, but his thoughts are too loud.

Idly, Shiro begins to scroll through his datapad—mostly news updates about the summit. Play-by-play on who came, with who, who spoke, who didn’t. The different fashions. Speculation articles on what will happen. Profiles of different leaders.

He stops at his. _Meet_ _Takashi Shirogane: away from the stars, he’s now the ambassador of Earth._

_Better than being stuck in one place._

Shiro closes the article, puts his datapad down, and for a long time, stares at his hands, now folded on the counter, and lets his tea grow cold.

* * *

 

Curtis is right: he’s exhausted the next morning.

But it’s his own fault, and Shiro takes it as his due. He slips into a new uniform, grabs an energy bar from one of the boxes lining the counter, says a quick goodbye to Curtis, who’s sleeping in.

It’s a short walk to the Garrison, and he’s one of the first ones there, dutifully standing in line to grab coffee. There’s also breakfast—likely courtesy of Hunk and his crew—and Shiro mechanically grabs a muffin, spoons scrambled eggs onto his plate.

All around him, people are chattering, but Shiro sits down at the nearest table, going over the agenda and trying not to spill coffee on his uniform.

Lance and Allura come in soon after, sitting down next to him, and Shiro puts down his datapad, doing his best to make cheerful small talk and trying not to notice when Keith walks in, looking as tired as Shiro feels.

He ends up sitting with one the Olkari representatives, and Shiro tries to ignore the sting in his chest. Allura and Lance don’t say a word, but he notices that they exchange brief glances when Shiro looks over for the third time, watching Keith pick at what looks like Tex-Mex breakfast scramble. His hair is tied back, dark circles stark against the paleness of his cheeks, and he’s in all-black today, except for a dark purple sash tied around his waist.

Keith looks up, and sees Shiro, looking as if he either wants to run away or go to him—but before either of them can make a move, there’s a call for the first meeting.

Shiro ends up sitting between Keith and Allura, who’s checking to make sure the mic in front of her face is on. He wonders if the distance between him and Keith is palpable, if everyone can sense it—and Shiro hopes not, is reminded that this isn’t just about him and Keith; it’s about Earth and Daibazaal.

The meeting begins. Names are called. The moderator—Coran, who sneaks a wave at the paladins—is introduced. The agenda is unanimously agreed upon. Someone says a few words about everlasting peace among the planets. There’s a polite smattering of applause. Negotiations begin.

The Voltron Coalition has an array of projects—restructuring, trading, reuniting families, humanitarian missions, freeing various colonies and planets from some Galra warlords that don’t want to let them go. Keith handles the questions thrown his way with grace, rarely glancing at his own notes, and personally offers the services of the Blade of Marmora.

“The Blade is Galra, is it not?” someone asks, rather stiffly. “All of them?”

“Yes,” Keith replies.

“Made of former warlords themselves,” the same diplomat notes. His tone is skeptical, bordering on hostile. “Particularly Prince Lotor’s generals—Zethrid, Ezor, Axca. How can you be so sure that they won’t go back to their old ways? Or are truly working for you?”

“No one works for me,” Keith says calmly. “We all work together, and we all trust each other. As for your concern, it’s understandable, but I can assure you of their loyalty to galaxy-wide peace. The _former_ generals helped Earth against Honerva and her army, if you recall. Axca in particular saved Voltron before that happened and has been instrumental in gathering allies within Daibazaal and its allying planets.”

“They teamed up in order to eliminate a threat against them as well. Now that there’s no danger of that—"

“Daibazaal doesn’t want war,” Keith interrupts. “You forget not everyone of the Galra Empire supported Zarkon and his reign.”

“Clearly not enough to stand against a ten-thousand-year-old dictatorship.”

More voices join in: “My people have been far more hurt under the Galra reign than any of your citizens, Representative Kogane.” “The empire is still fragile.” “There are still rebellions, colonies out there not yet freed.” “Perhaps reparations should be made.” “…Still a power vacuum. Who will fill it?” “Will it be _you_?” “Can we even trust the Galra?”

“Yes, we can,” Shiro says, and now, everyone is staring at him, even Keith. He clears his throat, leans into the mic, lips nearly brushing its surface. “We can. Because we can trust Keith Kogane, Black Paladin of Voltron and member of the Blade of Marmora. I myself trust him with my life, with Earth.”

“I do as well,” Allura adds, her voice strong and clear. “Altea has been—had been eliminated by Daibazaal a long time ago. I am the one of the last, and I speak for my planet when I say that Keith and the Blades can be trusted.”

“You were asleep for ten thousand years,” someone replies archly. “We were there—”

“How _dare_ you say that Allura hasn’t suffered!” Lance snaps, and that sets off an eruption.

“We are not minimizing the suffering of Altea or its queen…” “We are talking about the suffering of billions across ten thousand years—” “The Galra Empire must pay for its crimes.” “I say there should be a trial—” “Restitutions, reparations—” “A dismantling of their military, perhaps, as a show of good faith—" “Justice for our citizens—” “I understand—” “You are too young to understand, Voltron paladin or not—” “ _I fought in the war! We all did!”_

“That’s enough,” Coran suddenly calls out, his voice weary but commanding. “I motion for a short recess to cool our heads. Ten quintants.”

“Seconded,” Keith spits, then pushes back his chair, practically storming out of the room.

Shiro ignores the muttering, Allura beginning a short speech, even someone calling his name. Instead, he follows Keith, catching a glimpse of dark hair before it disappears around the corner.

“Keith!” he calls. “Wait!”

To Shiro’s relief, Keith turns around, his eyes softening. “Shiro. Sorry I lost my cool back there—and thank you for what you said.”

“It was needed,” Shiro says. “You saved the world—lots of times. It doesn’t matter where you come from.”

“It does,” Keith replies softly. “It shouldn’t, but it does. And it’s understandable. Really. I would ask the same questions. We all remember how we thought the entire empire were a bunch of monsters, especially in the beginning, and some of these planets haven’t even met a Galra ally, let alone the Blades. I don’t blame them.”

Shiro sighs, tilting his head back briefly. “I think the war was easier.”

“In some ways, yes,” Keith agrees, sounding more serious than Shiro’s heard. “We knew where we stood. We had one focused mission. And now—it’s a bit scattered right now. I don’t think anyone knows what to do, really. Everything is so different.” He looks at Shiro, then adds, quieter, “And I kind of said some shitty things last night. I’m sorry; I was wrong.”

“No,” Shiro repeats. It seems closer and closer to the truth the more he thinks about it. "I have been stuck here. May be past my prime at this point.”

Keith snorts. “‘Past your prime?’ Shiro, you’re in your _thirties_. If you're old," he says, gesturing towards the meeting hall, “then most of these people are dead." 

To Shiro’s surprise, he laughs—quick and sudden, but uninhibited—something that hasn’t happened in a long time. He’s used to polite chuckles, to short smiles—as fast as a lightning strike, with no lasting impression. “That's a morbid way of looking at it.”

“Shiro, your hair may be white, but you're the youngest here besides me and the future rulers of Altea.”

Shiro laughs again. A record, he thinks. “They might get married, won't they?”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Keith says dryly. “Guess I’ll be the last. Or never.”  

"What?" Shiro looks at him, surprised, not wanting Keith to put himself down like that. Never mind that, for some reason, the prospect of Keith marrying seems strange to him, almost foreign. He wonders if this is how Keith felt when Shiro got married, too, especially for a long time, he wasn't supposed to be alive at that point. “I don't think so.”

Keith only shrugs. "It doesn't really matter. And if it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't." 

That’s certainly a different way of looking at it, but so very Keith, accepting life’s usual pitfalls and rolling with them. “I guess I never thought about it that way. Those things seem…inevitable. Or at least something you should do. Doesn't everyone want to live happily ever after?" 

“Not everything is. Not everyone does,” Keith says, with another shrug, this time seemingly more calculated. He then glances at his datapad. “Looks like our ten quintants are up. Ready to go back in there?”

“No,” Shiro says, and this time, it’s Keith who laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

Tensions remain high, and while some are willing to push forward, there are others who have their own agendas, their own personal stakes. Shiro feels pulled in different directions but tries to stay firm, at least having Allura and Lance on his side. At least, Keith’s not standing alone for Daibazaal.

Privately, he wishes it was the same for him. Shiro is in contact with Earth’s other world leaders, some more difficult than others, and each request leaves him more and more rattled, especially since he must speak for an entire planet. He’s gotten used to leading, but it’s different without a team behind him, without one complete point to strive towards.

Still, though, he tries his best, staying later and later to hash out negotiations. Curtis, he knows, still waits up for him, has opinions of his own that Shiro doesn’t want to know—partly because he knows that he’ll unquestionably take Keith’s side if Curtis disagrees.

It worries him a little—about whether he’s too close, all the ethical consequences—and it chafes at him, worrying if he’s right or wrong, if he’s doing what’s best for the world or simply being selfish.

He doesn’t dare bring it up himself, but it comes up during a private dinner, just him and the paladins and Matt on the Garrison roof. It feels almost like the old days, sitting on the floor and stealing stuff from other’s plates, Hunk telling everyone to calm down and not be animals and _please no more work talk._

“Too late, everyone’s talking about it,” Pidge says. “I’ve had to turn my datapad off these past few days.”

“Yeah,” Matt agrees, “the reparations debate is getting kind of…heavy.”

“Understandably,” Keith mutters, “but if Daibazaal is pushed, they’ll push back. Peace is there, but it’s still…shaky. It wasn’t a large push for Daibazaal when Zarkon—but it was still a push. The Galra…victory or death.”

“And they feel like they’ve been defeated,” Allura says. “Some of them, at least.”

“Yes,” Shiro says. He’s read the papers, the op-eds, the messages that’ve gotten flagged in his inbox. He’s well aware of the uneasiness in this time of supposed peace, people holding their breath, waiting for the shoe to drop. “Then some want to move on,” he continues—thinking of the Holts, training the next generation of astro-explorers, the Blades trying to rebuild societies with their humanitarian missions, the Olkari and Alteans and Earth and others of the coalition exchanging technology and information. “But others don’t.”

Shaking her head, Pidge sighs, reaching for another soda. “Glad I’m not there.”

“Me neither,” Hunk agrees. “And personally? I don’t want another war.”

“No one does,” Allura says, “not really. They’re looking for vengeance. What’s owed to them.” She folds her hands, looks down. “I worry—I worry that there will be another Honerva. We’ve all sacrificed so much; we don’t even have Voltron anymore.”

They’re all silent, thinking about the lions speeding away into the cosmic beyond. Lance had thought they were searching for Allura, but he’d ended up finding her without them.

“I’d love to look for them,” Pidge admits.

“Same,” Lance agrees, and there’s a general wave of assent.

Shiro doesn’t speak up, though he misses Black, misses the freedom, misses what can’t be his anymore—something he likely doesn’t deserve anymore. “There’s no running,” he finally says. “It’s inevitable.”

* * *

When Shiro slips into bed that night, Curtis rolls over, lightly touching his arm. “Hey. Do you have the official word from Keith?”

“What?”

Curtis sighs, a bit impatiently. “Keith. About…our anniversary plans.”

“I haven’t really gotten a chance to bring it up,” Shiro admits.

 It’s the truth, sort of. He meant to ask Keith, but most of it’s been forgotten in the wake of new events—actually doing something, no matter how mentally taxing. And him and Keith, their own reunion…it’s still new, so fragile, and Shiro wants to keep it intact for as long as possible.

“If you don’t want to do it, we don’t have to,” Curtis says. “I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

“Thought…” Curtis hesitates, then says, more gently—and he means well, Shiro knows—but he’s gotten so tired of being handled with kid gloves, with pity: “Shiro, ever since we got back from Japan, you’ve seemed different. And I worry about that, about you.”

“But I’m fine,” Shiro insists, with a frustrated huff. “I’m fine. Trust me.”  

“I know something’s wrong. What?” Curtis asks, and Shiro cringes, hearing disappointment in his husband’s voice. Fuck. He hasn’t heard that before. He knows that Curtis is just concerned, but Shiro doesn’t want him to pry, to bring up old wounds. “Shiro, please.”

“Nothing is,” Shiro says, then rolls over, back facing Curtis. “Good night.”

* * *

After a surprisingly-subdued session—perhaps Allura is right in that people want peace, not another war—Shiro’s ready to ask Keith for dinner tomorrow, just about to turn towards him once the meeting breaks up, when someone touches his shoulder.

It’s the representative, the one that started the summit’s first debate about the trustworthiness of the Galra, of Keith. “May I have a few moments to speak to you, Ambassador Shirogane?”

Shiro watches Keith leave, talking with Lance and Allura on his way out, and resists a sigh. “Of course. What about?”

The ambassador pulls up the chair next to him, plopping down in Keith’s seat. “I’m curious about your loyalties. The Galra invaded and occupied your planet for years. And yet you stand with them.”

“I stand with friends,” Shiro replies, his head beginning to hurt again. “You forget he and the Blades—”

“I don’t doubt your friends’…loyalty to the coalition,” the ambassador says, though it seems like he does. “I only wish to understand. It’s your home, and you—I know your history. _Champion_.”

Shiro’s blood runs cold. He hasn’t heard that in a long time, and has been relieved to have it buried. But apparently, it’s another thing that will keep following him for the rest of his life. “What of it?”

“You have a personal reason to be against the Galra. We know your story; you fought and escaped and led Voltron for years. You came to our planet _,_ telling us to stand against them. Shiro the Hero, remember?”

Shiro bristles at the reminder. “I’m not that anymore.”

“And what changed? Old wounds—they fester, and even if they don’t, they leave scars.” There’s a deliberate pause, and Shiro feels the weight of the gaze on the slash across the bridge of his nose, his floating Altean arm. “Some of us wish to vote for justice, at the end of this summit.”

“Justice,” Shiro says, echoing Allura, “or vengeance?”

The ambassador’s face twists in a sneer. “You and your paladins are young—"

“Young,” Shiro echoes, bristling. He’s been dismissed for so many things, but his age is something that hasn’t been brought up in a while. “We may be young, but we have been through more than you think. And they’re not mine.” _Not anymore._

With that, he stands up to leave. “If you have issues with Daibazaal, I don’t speak for them.”

“But you are close to their representative, to the former Black Paladin,” the ambassador says, rising, too. “We’ve heard tales. But there’s uneasiness around the two of you—both representing your planets, his name is being put forward to lead the Galra Empire. Do you trust him—Galra—with that absolute power? Over the planet? Over Earth? Over _you_?”

Shiro takes a deep breath, looking him in the eye. “Yes. And I know your fear.”

He remembers trying to fight through the Black Lion’s consciousness, beating on it with mental fists and shouts into a seemingly-endless void. Him—or who’s now a part of him—saying those awful words— _they saw that you were broken, worthless. Just let go. The team is already gone._ The bayard cutting through his old arm, Keith standing with sorrow and horror in his eyes.

“Trust me,” Shiro says darkly, turning to go. “Keith is stronger than you think. He is the better man. I’d trust him more than me.”

* * *

Keith’s waiting for him in the hallway, concern written all over his face. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, then admits, just as they step outside. It’s almost sunset, orange glinting against polished metal, the skies so clear that Shiro can see the canyons yawning in the distance—and right by them, a fenced-off yard, where Garrison-issued hoverbikes are parked in neat lines.

An impulse overtakes him. “Let’s get out of here.”

Keith looks at the bikes, then at Shiro, eyebrows raised. “You do realize we’re still in our formal-wear. And we only have maybe an hour of daylight left, tops.”  

“Who cares? We’ll make it back in time,” Shiro says. “Unless you don’t think you’re fast enough.”

A challenge—something Keith’s never turned down.

With a smirk, Keith says, “I know I am,” and with a toss of his braid over his shoulder, starts running for the nearest bike.

* * *

The wind in his hair feels like freedom. Laughter bubbles from his chest, unconsciously, as the hoverbikes roar in the silence of the desert. Beside him, neck-in-neck, Keith is laughing too, hair streaming behind him, goggles nearly slipping down his nose. “Try to keep up!” he shouts.

In response, Shiro speeds up, zooming closer and closer as Keith nimbly dodges a rock formation, zooming underneath a rock arch, and Shiro follows, deft and sure, muscle memory returning like a familiar dance. Together, they pass over dunes, sand whipping in their faces, gathering in their best clothes, but Shiro doesn’t care.

A cliff approaches, and Shiro’s readying himself for this, his usual shortcut when Keith revs the accelerator with neat twists of his wrists. This time, it’s Shiro who brakes to watch Keith dive off the edge, then seamlessly swoop up at the last second in a neat arc.

It takes only a few seconds for Shiro to close his mouth and launch himself after Keith.

He hasn’t done this in a while—a part of him knows that this is utterly reckless and stupid—but when he leaps, adrenaline and fear tighten like fists in his chest as he falls and release in a swift whoosh when the bike barely—just _barely_ —grazes the ground, dust and rocks smacking against the lenses of his googles.

His hands are trembling— _fuck fuck fuck_ —but god, he feels—for the first time in a long time—alive. Truly and viciously alive.

When he finally reaches the agreed-upon finish line, Keith’s smirking, leaning against his hoverbike, goggles hanging from his neck. Despite the fact that his hair’s tangled around his face, that his sash is partially undone, and that Shiro lost the race, Shiro can’t help but grin at the sight.

“I win,” Keith declares.

“I didn’t know you picked that up,” Shiro says, removing his own goggles. “You’re full of surprises.”

Keith shrugs. “It was a long year.”

After Kerberos, Shiro deduces. “Well, that was perfect,” he says. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“I did it during our little rescue mission,” Keith says, gesturing to the bike. “With the whole team on this thing.”

Shiro laughs, trying to picture it. “Even more impressive. Bet you scared the hell out of them.”

“Lance was screaming the whole way,” Keith admits, and they both share another laugh. “I still can’t believe Pidge was able to hold onto you the entire time. It took me and Lance to drag you from the Garrison, then to the shack.”

“Is it even still here?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods. “We’re pretty close. Want to see?”  

They take their hoverbikes, though it’s a much slower, more leisurely ride, and soon, Shiro can see the familiar porch, the curtains pulled tightly over the windows.

“I haven’t been back here lately, but it looks okay,” Keith says, pulling out a key from his waistband. “Won’t collapse or anything. I know Mom’s stayed here a few times.”

It looks virtually unchanged—maps pinned to the corkboard, a slightly unmade bed in the corner, even a few old Garrison textbooks. Shiro flips through a few, smiling at the faded highlights and scrawled notes in the margins. “Calculus and theoretical physics. Never missed it.”

Keith scoffs, closing the door behind them. “Says the guy who kept throwing off the curve.”

“I had Adam to help,” Shiro admits, feeling a familiar—if softer—pang of grief. “Matt was the one ruining it for everyone. And you weren’t too bad yourself.”

“I think you have a bit more of a nostalgic view than me,” Keith says. “The late-nighters, the endless regulation checks, the saluting—”

“It was easier, then, though,” Shiro says. “We could just…drop anything and go where we wanted. Not like now. Or in space.”

“Kind of hard to do that, yeah,” Keith agrees, kicking aside a furled corner of the rug. “You should come to the space mall. Hunk’s brought Earth fast food there—you can actually find a decent burger, though Lance would never do it; he’s still attached to Kaltenecker.” He wrinkles his nose. “Takes a while to get there, though—especially without wormholes. God, I miss Earth food. I bet you’re sick of it.”

“A little,” Shiro admits. “Nothing’s really good in this town since the diner closed. It’s now an Italian bistro.”

“The diner? With the rollerblades and jukebox?” Keith frowns. “They tore it _down?_ When did this happen?”

“Um, a while ago.” He doesn’t know, really. He assumes it was destroyed when the Galra took Earth—or maybe all those years in space—who knows? “You remember it?”

“Shiro, that place was—” Keith catches himself, looking strangely flushed. Or indignant—it’s hard to tell. “Come on, you, me, Matt…Adam? That was our old spot. How could I forget it?”

Shiro smiles, remembering. The malt milkshakes. The burgers bigger than their fists. Matt flirting with the waitresses and once, falling flat on his back when he pretended to know roller skating. The records, which Shiro never failed to watch drop and spin underneath the needle. The music—the time Keith reprogrammed the jukebox to play Griffin’s least favorite song ten times in a row before Griffin stormed out, dragging his date behind him.

“You remember it, then,” Shiro says teasingly, sitting down on the couch.

“I remember everything.”

There’s something in Keith’s voice that makes Shiro pause—the seriousness of it all. “Yeah?”

Keith looks away, and he looks like he did before—how he hesitated in going after the Red Lion alone, how he hesitated in giving orders, how he stood surrounded by those glowing tubes—

“When you were gone, the first time,“ Keith says in one breath, as if he can’t repeat it once it’s been said, “it hurt remembering. But…it hurt more, letting them be forgotten.”

For a while, Shiro’s silent. “I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Don’t be,” Keith responds, “it wasn’t your fault _._ ”

_Something that wasn’t._

“I guess not,” he says, “but we didn’t know, back then, what was out there. Or what would happen.”

He prepared, of course—that was Garrison protocol. But it seemed like nothing to him, really, updating a will he had written when he was eighteen years old— _I, Takashi Shirogane, of sound mind and body—_

“I thought you’d come back,” Keith says. “You didn’t?”

_If mentally coherent, I invoke the right to die. If absolutely no chance of recovery, no extraordinary measures. If possible, I would like to be an organ donor._

“I don’t know,” Shiro admits. “But I had a ticking clock, remember? I was kind of prepared beforehand.”

_All my personal effects will go to ~~Adam Wagner~~ ~~Keith Kogane~~ Curtis Santos. _

Keith looks at him, shakes his head. “Losing you was never an option, though.”

“It should have been,” Shiro says. He sighs, kicks his feet out. “So, got any food here?”

* * *

They end up with two bowls, cobbled together from canned beans, sloppy Joe mix, and a stray Mexican spice packet buried in the depths of the utensil drawer. To wash it all down, they break open a gallon of water, splashing it into coffee mugs.

Outside, the sun is long gone. Desert insects whirl and chirp, and occasionally, there’s a faint creak from the pipes, a quiet whirr from the generator.

Shiro’s head is leaning back against the couch, arms stretched out lazily, stomach sated. The bowl, scraped clean, sits on the coffee table in front of them. Keith had turned on the radio earlier, music humming faintly in the background, a soft jazz song, one that Shiro liked to hear back in the diner.

He remembers humming it for days afterwards. Keith strumming some of it on his guitar in the shack. Lying on the floor of his dorm, uniform collars unbuttoned, bags of opened chips strewn around…

Different from now. So different.

Shiro closes his eyes, opens them. Looks around. The shack. The radio. The stars outside.

Laughing in a three AM delirium before a big exam. Lying on the Garrison roof, talking about the stars and their place in the universe. Dancing at the Garrison military bar, Matt spilling punch all over their shoes.

The launch. Pressing his dog tags into Keith’s hands. Crushing him into his chest.

A touch on his shoulder. Fire crackling on a desert planet, slightly different from here.

Weaving through the stars. Watching Keith fight, kicking and spinning and getting up. _At this moment, your friend desperately wants to see you._

Keith’s head against his shoulder, now. The warmth of his body against his. Legs touching.

“Don’t you wish…” Shiro begins, sleepily.

His voice trails off. _Wish…_

What does he even wish?

Keith doesn’t prompt him. His eyes are closed, breathing softly, in and out, lips parted.

Darkness. Floating in the stars. Reaching out… _I’m here. I’m here._

Shiro’s head slips. Falls onto Keith’s chest, slides down to his lap.

When his own eyes slowly begin to close, he sees brightness dancing across his vision. Feels Keith’s hand gripping his wrist. Never letting go.

* * *

Shiro wakes up to the sound to frantic buzzing.

He hears a soft groan, feels a warm press against his cheek.

“Mm,” someone groans.

And Shiro remembers. The hoverbikes. The shack. Keith—

He shoots up, head whirling. The buzzing’s coming from his datapad, and fingers fumbling, Shiro unlocks the screen, feeling Keith jolt awake beside him.

There’s a string of messages. From Allura. From Lance. From Curtis—

“Shit,” Keith says.

_Shiro, is your datapad on? Let me know. Where are you? It’s late. Shiro, Keith’s missing, too. Where are you?? I’m worried. Call me. Shiro??_

Shiro feels something shift in his throat. Closing his lungs. “The meetings,” he realizes. “We—”

“We missed them,” Keith mutters. “Oh, fuck.” He scrambles up, begins searching for his keys. “Shit. How late are we?”

“It’s morning,” Shiro says, glancing out the window. He rises, too, but reluctantly, stumbling. He smells like stale sweat, like dust, like spices. His hair, he knows, is a mess, and he can feel the stubble prickling his face. “I think we missed the first round.”

_Where are you?_

“I bet everyone—I—” Keith swears again. “Where are the keys? What time is it?”

Shiro glances at his datapad, swipes at the screen.

And as if on cue, it dings with a reminder: _Happy anniversary!_

“Late,” Shiro says. “ _Really_ late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagined that [ this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-VDbbjIto4) was playing in the background that night.


	6. Chapter 6

Keith had woken up to the creak of the back door.

It had been a dream, he’d thought. Finding Shiro at the Garrison. Racing across the desert with four screaming students. Lance—who he still didn’t remember—helping him roll Shiro onto his own bed, Keith quietly pulling out spare blankets and settling on the floor. Any moment now, he’d wake up to the sweltering desert heat, the gnawing in his chest.

But no—he heard the soft sounds of snoring outside his bedroom door, probably the big guy. The lumpy quilt was painstakingly folded at the foot of the bed. The clothes he’d laid out—his dad’s old ones—were gone.

“Shiro,” he whispered, and went out to find him.

* * *

There’s not much they can do now—only rush back to the Garrison. Shiro’s silent the whole time, the sound the roar of the hoverbikes.

Keith can’t help thinking of Shiro’s head on his lap. His own hand resting on the back of Shiro’s neck. They haven’t touched, not for so long—and not like that. Never like that.

Was that how Curtis touched Shiro? So intimately, without hesitation, knowing that Shiro was here, was his?

 _Things aren’t different,_ Keith reminds himself. Shiro is still married. Shiro will still be on Earth after this is over. Shiro—probably won’t see him, not until the next summit. If they haven’t fucked this up, that is.

They reach the airfield—completely empty—and Keith punches in the security code, still not looking at Shiro, who’s currently skimming through his datapad, a frown on his face.

“Everything okay?” Keith asks.

“Yeah,” Shiro replies, but it seems rushed, absent-minded. He taps something onto his datapad, then slips it into his pocket. “Just…Curtis was worried.”

Guilt twists in his stomach. “Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Shiro asks. “I’m the one who suggested this.” He gestures to the hoverbike. “It’s fine. And honestly, I’m glad we got to talk.”

 _Talk,_ Keith thinks. “Yeah,” he says. “It was…nice.”

And it was, he admits. It had felt like the old Keith-and-Shiro again.

Now, Shiro smiles at him, reaching out, and Keith can feel the warmth through the Blade uniform, every individual finger closing around his shoulder. “See you later?”

Keith nods, feeling a bit lighter. “Of course.”

* * *

And just his luck, after dodging two patrols and ducking behind a building to avoid a gaggle of reporters, he has to run into Lance.

His friend blinks at him, clearly taking in his rumpled clothes, the strands coming out of his braid, the desert dust on his boots. “Oh,” he says, managing to inject an incredible amount judgment into that one syllable.

“It’s not what you think,” Keith immediately replies.

“Of course it’s not,” Lance says, crossing his arms. He looks ready to roll his eyes, too. “You and Shiro are missing for the whole evening, then come back looking like…that? Of course not.”

“Nothing _happened_.”

“Really?”

Keith glares at him. “Mind your own business, Lance!”

Lance bristles. “It’s hard to _mind my own business_ when you—when Shiro…”

“Nothing happened,” Keith repeats, this time more wearily. “Nothing at all.:

Lance hesitates, stepping closer. “Keith. I don’t mean it like that. I just—Shiro…” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want either of you hurt, you know that?”

Keith sighs. He regrets telling Lance anything, especially after he’d skipped out on the bachelor party Lance had planned. It had been wild, Lance had claimed, but for some reason, since then, kept looking at Keith like a math problem he’d just solved.

He still remembers, bitter, after a Blades mission gone wrong and too much nunvill: _Maybe I won’t make it to the wedding,_ and Lance saying softly over the comm, _I know._

_What do you know?_

A pause. _I know Shiro wants to see you._

“Lance,” Keith finally says. “I appreciate it. But right now, I need to go.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, then steps aside, gesturing towards the direction of Keith’s ship. “I guess you do.”

* * *

He changes, does what he can to make himself look presentable, and heads to the next round of meetings, trying not to slink back into the room.

Shiro’s there, of course, and there’s a brief, stiff glance before he turns away to talk to another ambassador. He’s pin-perfect, every button and medal in its place, hair combed back, and Keith quickly looks away, then swings his head to avoid Allura’s piercing stare.

Other than that, no one seems to notice him—and for that, Keith’s grateful because his mind is entirely elsewhere.

Nothing happened. But something could have. And they agreed to…to this thing, does that mean it wouldn’t have mattered, if something had happened?

Yes, he decides. This arrangement was with Shiro _and_ his husband. Not just Shiro.

And really, does he want this?

“Kogane.”

Keith looks up. Right. The meeting. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

The ambassador—the one that seems to have it out for him—sneers. “Apologies. I forgot you had a late night.”

One breath. Two. “Again, can you repeat what you said?”

“There has been a culmination of both…public and personal opinion,” the ambassador says, “that Daibazaal must face consequences for their part in the war. As I was saying, I’d like to propose a vote on this front.”

“Vengeance,” Allura says, glaring at him. Lance, beside her, looks similarly tense. “We begin peace, and you wish to—"

“What is peace without justice?”

There are murmurs. Keith closes his eyes, wishing that he wasn’t here alone, and without thinking, he looks at Shiro.

Shiro speaks up: “We’ve lost so many. We should start thinking about what we have, and rebuild that. The universe doesn’t need instability. Not now.”

The ambassador only sneers. “I wish to hear what _Earth_ has to say, not Daibazaal.”

Keith glares, diplomacy be damned. “Excuse me? Sh—Ambassador Shirogane was speaking, not me.”

“Does he?” the ambassador responds, tone edging into something that has Keith curling his fists underneath the table. “Because it seems Daibazaal has a strong influence, whispering in Earth’s ear at night, between the sheets, perhaps…”

Heat rushes up Keith’s neck, and at the corner of his eye, sees Shiro’s face bloom red, right up to the roots of his hair, Altean hand closing into a fist on the table. “You—"

“And this calls for a brief recess!” Coran interrupts. “We’ve been sitting here for many vargas. Motion for—ten doboshes?”

“Seconded,” Shiro snaps, standing up and pushing his chair back with a screech that makes nearly the whole room flinch. He doesn’t look at Keith as he practically storms out, slamming the door behind him.

This probably isn’t great for the rumors, but fuck it—Keith goes after him, calling, “Shiro!”

Shiro turns, and to Keith’s relief, doesn’t seem angry—at least not at him. “Keith, don’t. It’s not you,” he says. “I…” He shakes his head. “It’s my fault. I put you in that position—”

“What are you talking about?” Keith demands.

Shiro winces. “I forgot to tell you. Yesterday. He came up to me, basically told me what he was going to try to start.”

“Shiro,” Keith says slowly, “how could you not—I…”

“I’m so sorry,” Shiro says. “I forgot. And that’s—I should have warned you, Keith. So you weren’t left in the lurch like that.” He takes a deep breath. “You know I wouldn’t do that on purpose. Let people say things like that to you—”

 _A half-breed and his mommy._ “I know,” Keith says. “And really, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Shiro frowns, obviously confused. “What?”

“At the Garrison,” Keith says. “You never heard? Apparently I wasn’t _that_ good at flying to be top of the class.”  

It takes a few seconds, but Shiro looks aghast at the implication. “Keith, I’m so sorry. I never thought…I would have said something if I’d known. They shouldn’t have talked to you that way—"

“Like I said, it’s nothing,” Keith interrupts. “And they were insulting _you_ , too—how could you not be mad about that? Like you would do that to me—to Adam.”

“Adam,” Shiro repeats, and his hand goes to his ring finger, twisting the band of gold. “No.”

The gesture makes Keith ask, albeit reluctantly: “Curtis…what happened? Is everything okay with you two?”

“Curtis was…” Shiro begins, then sighs. “He was upset, and I don’t blame him. But I might have—I told him…well. He now thinks we, uh, talked about our arrangement.” Shiro looks down at his hands, wrings them; it looks strange, metal against flesh. “He thinks it’s going to—after the final banquet. During the celebrations, when everyone is busy.”

Keith’s mind is spinning. It’s like the world’s dropped out from under his feet, reoriented, and dropped away again. “…Last day? Of the summit?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, hesitant. “If you still…”

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s immoral. Maybe it’s playing into what everyone already thinks.

But Keith’s willing to be all of these things, when it comes to Shiro. He’s selfish enough to want Shiro, immoral enough to use Shiro’s husband as both a barrier and excuse, and reckless enough not to care about how it looks—to Lance and Allura, to that ambassador, to the world. 

“Yes,” he says, looking Shiro in the eye. There's no turning back. “I still do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right...next chapter is the moment you all have been waiting for, finally. Thank you for making it this far :)


	7. Chapter 7

The summit ends with a whimper.

No vote of retribution happens, even with prodded protests. Allura squeezes Keith’s hand in a sigh, Lance crushes him in a hug, the ambassador storms off in a huff, and Shiro meets his eyes over Lance’s shoulder. _It’s over._

And then, and _then_ —the night arrives.

The festivities are outside this time, with more speeches, music, and alcohol. Everyone is in formalwear, wandering around the courtyard and eating whatever’s in sight and following each other to the dance floor.

Lance and Allura, of course, are one of these people, and Keith stands off to the side, an unfinished drink in his hand, watching them glide across the floor, shaking off their invitations. Allura’s in a flowing blue gown, hair spilling over her shoulders, with Lance in a matching suit and hands on her waist. Occasionally, Lance spins her, and Allura laughs, having to keep adjusting the crown that’s sliding down her forehead, but it's obvious she doesn't mind one bit. 

They look happy, of course, utterly wrapped up in each other. Keith sighs, glancing away, seeing Shiro and Curtis talking by the dessert table, and wonders if they’re going to dance, too. For a brief moment, he fantasizes about Shiro breaking away from the crowd, coming up to him with his hand outstretched—

And Shiro’s moving—actually walking towards him, now—

Only to whisper in his ear, “Ready to get out of here?”

Keith swallows. Nods. “Sure,” he says, too casually, looking back at Allura and Lance. Lance’s head is resting on Allura’s shoulder, and Keith takes a deep breath, then hurries after Shiro.

* * *

He feels like a trespasser, stepping into their home, but goes through the door anyway.

In the middle of the room is Curtis, smiling nervously with a drink in his hand. Keith looks at him again, the second time this week, surrounded by a jacket thrown over the couch, shoes kicked underneath the coffee table, two mugs left to on the kitchen counter, the wedding photo on the mantle. The furniture, the rug, the kitchen—had they gone out, picked out pieces of their life together?

“Shiro,” Curtis breathes, putting the glass down on the coffee table. He steps forward, grabbing Shiro by the lapels of his jacket and kissing him—and Keith doesn’t know where to look. Should he watch Curtis? Shiro? Look away? What should he even do?

Finally, Curtis pulls away, then looks at Keith—and Keith realizes this: he has to kiss Curtis, touch him, do all the things he imagined with Shiro with…with this stranger. His stomach pulls in five different directions, and he can’t help look at Shiro, who seems frozen in place, transfixed as Curtis walks over to him.

Before Keith knows what he’s doing, he backs away, making Curtis frown. “Everything okay?” he asks.

* * *

Shiro can’t think. He can’t make himself _move._ Because this is it. This is what was the original plan. Happening now. Tonight. Right? Isn’t that what they all agreed on? What they want?

Curtis is talking again, slowly reaching out with one hand, as if Keith’s a startled animal ready to bolt. “Shy?”

“No,” Keith says shortly. He lets Curtis’s hand come up to cup his cheek, then caress his jaw, fingers lingering over his scar, but his body looks tense, ready to bolt—even fight.

“He doesn’t have to do this,” Shiro finds himself saying. “Not if he doesn’t want to.”

Something in him protests. Never having this. Never having this chance.

Keith sounds irritated. “I _do_.”

“Then, it’s okay,” Curtis says tentatively. “Right?”

But Shiro isn’t looking at his husband. He’s looking at Keith—still in his ceremonial uniform, eyes fierce and dark, the same deep purple as his sash. It drapes over Keith’s body, but pulls slightly tight over the chest, and Shiro breathes. Remembers the cabin, the warmth.

And he steps forward.

* * *

Keith mirrors him, moving closer, and his eyes close when Shiro’s lips meet his.

It’s not passionate, exactly, but it’s so tender, so soft in a way Keith never knew. His lips part to allow Shiro in, and he finds that his own hands are gripping Shiro’s hair, silver like starlight, bringing the other man, the heat, the pressure closer. And Shiro’s hands are pulling him in, too, pressing Keith further into his body, and oh, Keith can feel the muscle beneath Shiro’s uniform, the edges of brass buttons pressing into his chest.

Shiro’s arms come up around his neck, pulling him closer—even more closer—and Keith settles against him, hands flattening at the small of Shiro’s back—fingers clenching, kneading, feeling the fabric against his fingertips. He’s aware that he’s slightly standing on his toes, Shiro’s mouth opening under his, yielding.

Keith remembers the heat of the campfire, after the crash. The dryness of Shiro’s lips. Wanting to kiss him, but not daring. Never daring, not even when Shiro blinked at him with sleepy eyes: _Keith, I was dreaming. Keith, you saved me._ Not even when he’d leapt out of Black, sword carving through Sendak, then cradled Shiro in his arms, exhausted but triumphant: _Thank you._

He wonders what would have happened, if they had enough time. If he hadn’t had hesitated. If—

Shiro kisses back, fierce but still tender, cupping his face in his hands, thumb over his scar, running back and forth, and Keith’s hands move up Shiro’s forearms to Shiro’s shoulders to clasp around his neck, gripping tighter, blind to everything else—

There’s a short breath, and Shiro pulls back, hands lingering—and Keith remembers where he is. Curtis, still standing there, Shiro’s husband. _Husband_.

But it no longer holds quite that same weight, not after that kiss.

* * *

Shiro reaches up. Touches his lips. Something has changed—or maybe it’s been that way the whole time, and he’s just now realized it.  

His husband—Curtis—is looking at them, and for the first time, Shiro can’t read his husband’s face. Does he know?

Curtis, who started this. Curtis, who never knew. Never knew him—through Shiro’s own hesitance, through Curtis’s own ignorance.

 _How long had he not known?_ Shiro wonders. How long had he thought this would last? How long did Curtis not know—the arena, the clone, Keith?

Keith. Keith.

Curtis now clears his throat, not looking at Shiro, who’s slowly pulling his hands away from Keith’s face. “My turn, I guess,” he says, then reaches for Keith, and leans in.

* * *

Curtis is—

Keith doesn’t know. He kisses well enough, but there’s a cautiousness to it. A sweetness, like honey in a cup of bedtime tea. Familiar, considerate.

Which is all well and good, but Keith feels nothing besides the sensation of slightly-chapped lips, fingers on his hips, hair tickling his forehead.

But what did he expect? He and Curtis barely know each other, even after these years, even after Shiro married him. Keith can count all the things he knows about this man on his fingers—

Fingers that are tracing his hip.

Keith tenses, tries to breathe. _You can't back out. Not now._

* * *

Shiro thinks, _Stop._

* * *

“Wait,” Shiro says.

Keith and Curtis look up. Shiro meets their gazes, eyes tentative, and Keith wonders if he’s going to call this off.

But Shiro only says, “Bedroom,” and they stumble down the hallway, close the door behind them, with the room only lit by the full moon peeking through the blinds.

Keith unfastens his sash, lets it fall to the floor, then begins undoing the front clasps of his uniform, aware of the eyes taking him in, moving slower than he normally would. The armor peels away. He shrugs it off, then starts with the shirt underneath, tugging upwards over his head.

Shiro immediately reaches for him, fingers tracing over the scar on his right shoulder from the Blades trial so long ago. It had cut through the fabric, and Keith remembers stripping out of it in the privacy of his room, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out when dried blood was being pried away.

“That looks nasty,” Curtis comments.

“It’s old,” Keith says shortly.

Shiro’s still tracing it, almost absentmindedly, as gentle as he was years ago, cleaning the wound, Keith’s suit bunched around his waist, Keith pretending his tears are from the alcoholic sting. _You’re more than your blood. How can I ever hate you?_

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, then presses his mouth to the scar.

* * *

And god, this was a mistake, being able to touch Keith like this, but he can’t stop.

He traces over Keith’s scars, stories he never got to hear about—each raised line, each dark pink slash, each white ridge. There’s a series of small gouges, silvery tears, a brownish-red gash at his side, and an irregularity of skin where it looks as if someone grabbed part of his chest and twisted. There’s puckered lines, scratches, and myriads of crusted circles—

Were these from surgery, after Sendak? A Blade mission? How badly was Keith hurt? How long had he not known?

Shiro traces a wound, an angry slash down Keith’s side—delicately, raising his nail up so it can’t scratch, then, with the pads of his fingers, moves to the old scar on the right shoulder, bending his head and kissing it, mouth open.

Honerva had cleaned Shiro’s body up—a blank slate. This isn’t his original body, still doesn’t feel like his, wonders if Keith will notice. They’ve seen glimpses of each other around the Castle, around the Garrison, after all, and as Shiro steps back, the taste of Keith’s skin on his lips, he sheds his jacket, his shirt.

Keith runs a hand, tentatively, down Shiro’s bare, unscarred chest. Presses against his thudding heart. Looks at him. _He knows._

And with that, Shiro can't resist--he pulls Keith in, and kisses him again.

* * *

He hasn’t done this. Contrary to what Shiro probably thinks, though, there hasn’t been anyone before the Garrison. Or during, as some of the nastier rumors had insinuated, especially not with Shiro or any of the officers.

Or after—he’d been lost in a sea of grief and rage and knew better not to trust anyone to hold him in their hands with that.

Or in space—how could he, with a war, with the paladins and Blades next door?

Shiro has, of course. Adam. Maybe a past boyfriend—or more—before that. Curtis.

But Keith wants this. Wants Shiro. Always has.

He steps out of his boots, his pants, watches Shiro do the same. Vaguely, he’s aware of Curtis, who hasn’t so much as unbuttoned his shirt, but Keith allows himself to forget, forget when Shiro moves forward, hands roaming over his exposed skin, almost frantically, like this will all disappear at the stroke of midnight.

 _Do you wish…?_ Shiro had asked, that night.

But he’d never finished. What had he wished?

* * *

 _I wish you were here_ , Shiro thinks.

Then, he remembers. The bachelor party. Knocking back shot after shot. Roaming around the town. Stopping at the Italian restaurant, where he and Curtis had their first date. The one that used to be a diner. Drunkenly murmuring Keith's name. And Lance’s face, horrified but confirmed. 

“Keith,” he whispers now. _Keith. Keith. Keith. I’ve wanted you. Always wanted you. You._  
  
And with a sinking feeling in his gut, Shiro yanks away, catching his husband’s expression in the corner of his eye.

Curtis’s face says it all: he’s said that out loud. “Shiro?” he echoes. 

“I…” Shiro can’t think. Keith's still in his arms, staring up at him, fingernails digging into his shoulders. “I…”

And he does what he’s thought about doing for a long time—runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Shiro takes a hoverbike and goes as far as the cliffs, the same place where he and Keith had dived off only a few days ago, sinking down on the nearest ledge and burying his face in his hands, not even bothering to take off his goggles. The edges press painfully into his face and palms, but he doesn’t care.

What has he done? In just one word, he’d destroyed everything he’s tried to build over the years. A peaceful life. A successful career. A marriage.

Guilt wracks him in powerful waves. He could blame Curtis for not noticing, but it wouldn’t be fair, not to mention utterly wrong. Curtis may have suggested this whole thing to begin with, yet Shiro was the only who took it and ran with it, despite all the warning signs. It’s his own fault—and only has himself to blame. He could have said no, stopped it at any point, even, especially since Keith—

Keith. Shiro takes a deep, shuddering breath. How could he have been so selfish? How could he have…

He can’t imagine what’s happening back at the house, and doesn’t want to think about it. Keith would—he doesn’t know, and that seems to hurt more. He used to know every move Keith would make, as easily as his own, and now, it was over. Or had been over, a long time ago.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by a quiet purr, then footsteps.

“What the hell was that?” Keith now asks. He looks like he’d pulled on his clothes hastily, sash tied at a haphazard angle, hair loose around his shoulders.

“You were there,” Shiro says lowly. Fuck, he doesn’t want to go back, and frustration, humiliation, even anger—mostly at himself—bubble to the surface. “Do you want the whole story? Do you want—”

Keith slashes the air with an errant hand, cutting him off. “What do I _want_? Really, Shiro, what right do I have to that?”

“What right?” Shiro snaps, voice startling in the quiet of the canyon. “Is that what you think? You having some _right_?”

“I don’t know what I had!” Keith shouts back, twisting his sash over and over in his fingers. He’s not looking at Shiro—refusing to. “Everything was different after you…came back the second time. You treated me like a coworker at best, and I know we were so much more than that, but…” Keith shakes his head, once, then begins to turn away. “Forget it. I never should have agreed to this. Any of this.”

Without thinking, Shiro rises, grabs his arm. “Please,” he says, so quietly that it’s almost inaudible, even to his own ears. “Stay.”

“I can’t,” Keith says, and those two words strike deep into Shiro’s heart. “You’re happy. I ruined that. Right?”

Shiro can almost hear the plea: _Tell me you’re happy. Don’t let me be wrong._

 _I’m the ambassador of Earth_ , he thinks. _I’m married to a man who loves me. How could I not be happy?_

“No,” he replies softly. “You didn’t ruin anything. I don’t know if I was—” Shiro pulls Keith so he’s facing him, holds both hands in his. He feels so raw, so exposed, but it’s different from all the private moments he and Keith shared. It feels strange—but true. Truer than he’s been in years. “I meant what I said. I always wanted you.”

Keith yanks his hands away. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps. “Was this some game? How long have you known?”

“I didn’t!” Shiro says, words tangling in his throat. He hasn’t talked about this, not for years, and nothing makes sense, can’t be put in a neat explanation. But he tries, for Keith: “I swear, I…or maybe I did, and I said no. I remember all of it, carry it with me. I’m the Champion. I’m the clone. How could I have done that to someone I love? What am I capable of?”

Keith shakes his head. “It’s not either of those things that hurt me.” He then pulls away—only a few steps, but Shiro feels the loss as if they’re now galaxies away, maybe even farther than before. He briefly looks up at Shiro as if he wants to say something, but only turns away, throwing one leg over his hoverbike.

“Good-bye, Shiro,” he says, and Shiro’s left with nothing but dust.

* * *

This time, it’s Curtis who’s waiting for him, hands folded on the kitchen table. “How long has this been going on?”

“I’ve never slept with Keith,” Shiro says, sliding into the seat across from his husband. There’s no drinks, no datapads, nothing between them this time. “We’ve never done anything.”

“No,” Curtis says wearily. “I don’t mean that. I mean…how long have you felt this way?”

Shiro closes his eyes. “Since…I don’t know.” _Since we got back to Earth. Since the facility. Since before._  

“What do you mean?” Curtis asks, voice rising higher, and Shiro notices that Curtis is fidgeting the ring on his left hand, which nearly slides off with each twist. “You weren’t happy? This whole time?”

“No,” Shiro says desperately. “I was. I just…it’s not you, Curtis.” He sighs; it sounds so trite like this, but it’s the truth. “It’s me. I haven’t been happy. Not for a long time.”

“I don’t understand,” Curtis whispers. “You’re Earth’s representative. You’re home. And you’ve never been happy? All these years?” He looks at Shiro, almost desperately, wanting to understand. Wanting to fix this. 

“No,” Shiro says, then softer. “No. If I was, it would have been...” He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t told you much about what happened. And I will, now.”

It may be too late, but he starts talking. He’s never been good at talking about himself, so it begins with coming back to the Earth, then having to because their old ship—the Castle, which felt like a home he’d never known—had been destroyed. It had been destroyed to save the universe, which needed saving from pulling apart realities, like what happened with Honerva, who was responsible for cloning him—

He works backward from there. Says how this wasn’t the first time being controlled by an outside force, that he’d been a prisoner of war, after Kerberos. But even as Shiro talks, he realizes he’s leaving out a great deal, only stating what happened to him as if it happened to someone else, an old friend who’d died a long time ago.

He talks about the lions, how it felt to pilot of the universe’s greatest weapons. He talks about Black, how in control and sure of himself he’d been. How he’d stepped aside—voluntarily and forcibly—and how he never got that back, not even with Atlas. But if he had to lose Black, he would have wanted to lose Black to Keith.

By now, soft light is beginning to stream through the thin curtains, and Shiro’s out of words.

“…How did I not know about you?” Curtis finally asks. “What kind of husband am I?”

“A good one,” Shiro says firmly. “I thought…” He trails off. Everything he’s done seems so selfish, now. All he feels is disgust and guilt. What could he say? _I thought this would fix everything? Make me happy?_

Shiro looks at Curtis, this man he married—the one who waited. Who had to know on some level that this Shiro wasn’t himself, but didn’t, because Shiro had been a stranger. Made himself one. Retreated so far into himself that he couldn’t climb out.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. It sounds so useless. _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

Curtis looks away, and Shiro can’t blame him. “I am, too.”

* * *

A few hours later, they say goodbye.

Lance and Allura hug them all, and if they’re tighter than usual, Shiro doesn’t say a word. If Keith told them, if they’d put together all the pieces themselves, he’s not sure, but no one says anything, certainly not with the crowd of diplomats and well-wishers and press surrounding them.

Curtis is noticeably absent. Keith is, too, though Lance mentions they’d seen him before, boarding his ship, with a significant glance in Shiro’s direction. Allura places a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing, and her eyes are kind, kinder than he deserves.

“Take care, Shiro,” she says, then with a final wave, steps arm-in-arm with Lance into their ship.

Shiro watches them begin their launch, and wishes he could leave, too.

* * *

In the end, Shiro can’t say that he and Curtis don’t try.

They drag along for a few more months before they accept the inevitable. No amount of dates at their old Italian restaurant, of long talks at night, or even marriage counselling can make up for what Shiro did, or can alleviate the distance between them. The curtain is pulled back, and both of them are scrambling without a script, without direction. And Curtis—Curtis is so hurt. Shiro can see that too clearly.

He and Curtis file for divorce, in a stifling, small records room in the Garrison. He’s not sure what to do with his ring—Curtis’s finger is already bare—and ends up tucking it away in a box, unwilling to throw it away. It seems disrespectful, somehow.

The Garrison runs on gossip—it always has—and Sam and Matt and Pidge and even Iverson drop by with invitations to dinner, to therapy, to go out, to leave for the time being. Others salute him, as always, but there’s an underlying current of pity or surprise or judgment, especially when Curtis puts in a transfer.

Curtis was well-liked at the Garrison, Shiro knows, and he tells Curtis to not leave because of him, but Curtis can’t be convinced. He has to leave, he says, to get away from everything—and suggests Shiro do the same. To the desert, he suggests hesitantly. To Japan, even. But he doesn't know, doesn't know what to tell Shiro. 

* * *

But there's always been an obvious option, Shiro later realizes.

In the middle of night, without even a suitcase or an extra change of clothes, he slips onto Atlas, hearing the hum in his head, and slowly runs his fingers over the console. She can fly, he knows, even without the rest of the crew. Shiro looks at the spot Curtis used to sit, turns away, breathes as the lights begin to flicker on, the crystal in his arm singing. His head fills with light, with vibrations, with possibilities.

For the first time, he feels weightless, an excitement trembling in his fingers.

But first, Shiro picks up his datapad. Swipes at a familiar contact. Not to his surprise, no one answers, but he raises the screen to his lips anyway.

He hopes he can be forgiven, if that’s possible. He hopes it’s not too late. If it can’t—well, he won’t force it. But he’ll let himself be found, this time.

“To the stars,” he says to himself, and lifts off.


	9. Chapter 9

For a while, Keith doesn’t look back.

He takes every mission given to him, and then some. Escorting refugees. Rebuilding some homes and hospitals and factories. Going undercover to bust some unsavory characters. Putting down a few rebellions. Recruiting new Blade members. Stopping an assassination attack. Even going out on a diplomatic mission with Zethrid, which nearly gets him killed twice.

The only thing he doesn’t do is give speeches. It reminds him too much of what he was supposed to do at the summit, which reminds him of what he lost, what he threw away, what he fucked up before even getting there.

“It would do a lot of good to hear you speak,” Kolivan tells him once.

“It’s better for me to be here,” Keith argues. “Helping people. Rebuilding. Doing…things.”

 “Then come back to Daibazaal. There’s plenty to do here.”

Keith shakes his head. What’s there for him—meeting and greeting, helping with the elections, brokering peace, trying to reset a ten-thousand-year-old reign—it reminds him too much of a future set in stone. That if he goes there, he might not come back.

He knows he _can_ do it. If he tries. If he puts his all into it. If he steps up, again.

But it’s not him.

“Send me out on another mission,” Keith says.

* * *

 

He takes on more and more and more.

Sometimes, Keith goes out, but it’s never much, mostly wandering around with his thoughts or with whatever the planet’s equivalent of a hoverbike is. He’s tried to be around people, but can’t stand it—too loud, too claustrophobic, and too lonely to stand in a crowd and feel utterly adrift.

A few have asked to share his bed—either because of his name or for purely aesthetic reasons—and Keith always turns them down. Sometimes, Keith gets to a point where he _wants_ to, if only to take his mind off of things, but when he really starts picturing it, imagining someone else’s hands on his body, he can’t.

It’s now that Keith knows the feeling of Shiro’s lips against his own. His fingertips tracing bare flesh, his old wounds. The weight and warmth of his body.

At night, when he closes his eyes, he can’t help but see Shiro in the moonlight, stripped and scarless.

Another mission. Another one. Maybe in time, he’ll be able to forget.

* * *

His friends send Keith missives. Allura, inviting him to rest for a while at Altea and chatting about the small team of Altean adventurers. Lance, offering to take him for a “space road trip” and get drunk across the galaxy. Hunk, sending him pictures of food and the different planets his team’s visited, along with a few coy messages about Shay. Pidge, alerting him to new experiments and Matt’s series of dating failures, including being judo-flipped by Romelle. Matt, passing along occasional jokes and tidbits of Garrison gossip.

He hears of the separation, the divorce. There’s no real joy; he wonders what they’re saying about him, how much of the blame is going around, if he’s managed to ruin someone he loves.

And then, he hears of Shiro’s disappearance.

Keith gets pieces and pieces, scrolling and trying to get a hold of everyone, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. There was no note, or belongings packed. Atlas is gone. Lance and Allura swear up and down they haven’t seen him; same with Hunk and Romelle and everyone else in their circle.

The only thing anyone seems to agree upon is this: Shiro’s alive.

But no one seems to know exactly where he is.

* * *

He hears a little, through the Coalition, through stories on planets he visits—a silver-haired man with an Altean arm—pretty distinctive—passing by.

Sometimes, he’s there for aid—the same thing the Blades and the Coalition do, but on a smaller scale, fixing falling-apart buildings or helping out at a farm or even running a booth at a festival.

But mostly, he’s there to explore the sights—the undersea caves with glowing crystals, the glass-like buildings thrumming with music, the bustling night market of curious tastes and textures, the creatures looping in the depths of the forest, the abandoned ruins of cities long ago turned to dust.

Shiro’s exploring the stars, Keith thinks, just like he wanted to.

* * *

He doesn’t tell anyone, but there are photos on his datapad.

There aren’t any messages or location pings—just images. Sometimes of landmarks, easily identifiable, or something random, like a silver spring growing from a crack, a space-cat roaming the streets, a bowl of fire-engine red noodles and flecks of gold sprinkles.

But they all say the same thing: _I’m here. Come find me._

* * *

“Are you all right?”

“What?”

Krolia now looks away, as if steeling herself, then says, “Keith. We never talked about so many things.” She pauses. “Your father, for one.”

Keith blinks, surprised. He's never really heard her mention Dad, not since the quantum abyss, and that was to explain the flashes of the past. It's another thing he and his mom share, keeping bits of themselves from everyone else. Walls. 

“Dad?” he asks, and is surprised about how small his voice has become, even though by now, he’s lived longer without him—so long that he has to concentrate if he wants to remember. There are no pictures, no recordings, nothing but a gravestone.

Krolia shakes her head. “I wanted to tell you so much about him. But when I found out he was...gone, it became too painful.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say—so useless, worn down by time. _Sorry, Keith; it was too late to save him. Sorry, you’re going to have to leave tomorrow. Sorry, perhaps this school isn’t the right fit. Sorry, Cadet, Shirogane’s gone…_

“You lost him, too,” she says. “We all lost someone we loved.” Her voice is quieter now. “I thought about telling you, after I saw something. Kerberos.”

The name still freezes him. “What?”

“You were dreaming, I think,” Krolia says. “The desert. The delirium. You finding the cave. But most of all—Keith, I felt so much pain. And that was because your whole world had been ripped away.”

Keith shakes his head. It’s coming back now, stronger, maybe because he’d stayed in that shack, with Shiro… “Don't—"

But his mom continues, relentless. “It was different from the other ones. You thought there was hope the second time. That he would return to you. But you never thought that was a possibility the first time. And now…Shiro's lost to you again,” she says softly. “You think that. But I know differently.”

"Yeah?” Keith retorts. “You weren’t there, after we left. You never saw…” Shiro moving to Pidge’s lion. Shiro not being there, the day of the launch. Shiro not being _anywhere,_ really, not unless he was with the rest of the Atlas crew. “You never saw how much he changed.”

“No,” Krolia admits. "But I saw him that day, when your lion fell. I was with the retrieval team. He ran to it, and it wouldn't open for him—and he broke. Put his hand on its mouth. Begged. Promised anything if you were still alive.” She sighs. "Finally, it opened for him, and he carried you out. He wouldn't leave your side, except to give the speech at the memorial. He would sit by your bedside, watch you for hours.”

Keith can almost picture it. And maybe—feel it. A presence in the room. His hand, useless and disobedient, over the covers. His head aching. Dreams of his blade cutting through Sendak, Atlas smashing onto Earth, Shiro calling out orders. Someone saying his name.

But if that’s true—then what had changed?

“That is not a man who doesn't care for you,” Krolia says firmly.

Keith looks away. “That was then, maybe. But it's too late.”

“No,” she says firmly. “It’s not. I would give anything to see your father again.” Krolia puts a hand on his shoulder. “You may experience pain again. But leaving things unknown, uncertain—I don’t think it’s in either of our natures.”

Keith closes his eyes. Takes a breath.

“Mom,” he says. “I’m going to need a ship.”

* * *

When he touches down, Keith can only stare.

Surrounding him are arching cliffs like the ones back at Garrison, but when the light hits them, they seem to shift, sparkling in gold and purple and orange, like sunsets. The sky is the lightest shade of blue—almost white—and the air around him is quiet. Peaceful.

He tip his head backwards, looking up. In the distance, there are more cliffs, stretching out beyond the horizon, so expansive that Keith feels like he can run and run and nothing would stop him.

“You found me.”

Keith turns.

Shiro's wearing what looks like his old leather jacket. Other than that, his wardrobe is entirely unfamiliar—looking like he grabbed whatever he found in the space mall, or from the locals, with loose pants and stray colorful fabrics and something like looks like a knife strapped to his thigh.

The biggest change, though, are his eyes. Serious, yes, but there’s a spark Keith hasn’t seen in a long time.

“You know,” he says dryly, “if you really didn't want to be found, you wouldn't have left clues. Or traveled in Atlas. But..." He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "You seem happy." 

"Thanks,” Shiro says, then laughs. “I guess I learned to reconnect with the stars. Explore the unknown. And do some good along the way."

"Will you ever go back?"

Shiro gives a rueful shrug. “Maybe. I'm assuming I'm fired from my ambassador position, maybe not expected back at the Garrison, either. I have no obligations. Nothing to prove anymore.” He looks Keith in the eyes. "I wanted to be found, by the way. But when you were ready.”

“Giving me a choice.” Keith nods, then says, for the first time, “I saw you on Launch Day. I waited for you. You were in your office, and I thought you were working, that I'd convince you to go out. But you weren't. You were with Curtis.”

Shiro shakes his head. "Nothing was happening.”

“But it was going to,” Keith says. “And it wasn't fair. You were caught up in this series of messed-up coincidences, and this was the day you told people to be with the ones you loved. And I thought...that's what you wanted. What you deserved. A life on Earth. Peace.”

Shiro sighs, shifts to his other foot. “Peace is not something I'm going to argue against.”

“Neither am I,” Keith says. “But we both know something about choices. And then being taken away from us. And choosing wrong.” _Being stupid,_ he wants to say.

“When you fell,” Shiro finally says, “when you crashed to Earth—I thought I'd lose you. If you lived,” Shiro's breath catches, and Keith remembers what his mom told him, begins putting it together. “If you lived, I would let you go. You said something about messed-up coincidences, and if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have—just as Adam—"

“You never grieved,” Keith says softly.  

“No,” Shiro says. “It was war. How could I be that selfish?” He smiles ruefully. “I was a fool. I thought I could prevent the world from taking things I loved if I stopped living. The Black Lion. Being a paladin. You.”

Keith comes closer, hesitates before touching Shiro on the arm. “I should have seen. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have given up on you.” How could he have not known? Or had he—and just been caught up in himself?

“I guess we should have done a lot of things,” Shiro says. “Keith, you wanted my happiness, and I…I want the same, don’t want to hold you back from anything. You can have so much. Have the whole world—the galaxy—”

“Not without you.”

Shiro stares, slack-jawed.

“Look,” Keith says, “Mom and Kolivan, we’ve talked about it—me being a new face. No baggage from the old reign. But familiar enough—a paladin, part of the coalition, an established leader. Maybe I’ll take it, or go back to Earth or Altea or somewhere else entirely. Or never settle down. I don’t know what the future holds."

Keith now looks around—at the cliffs, at the skies, at Atlas behind Shiro’s shoulder. He remembers the photos, every one of them loaded into his datapad. "But I know I don’t want to do it without you.” 

Shiro looks down at the ground, almost shyly. "Me neither." He gestures to the horizon, to Atlas. "You're right. We don't know what'll happen next. Now, though..." 

"Now," Keith says, then takes Shiro's hand. "Let's start over." He clears his throat. "Hey. I'm Keith Kogane." 

"Keith, what..." 

"You look human, but I don't want to assume things. It's weird, but I'm half-alien, Galra on my mom's side." Keith grins. "I grew up on Earth. Born and raised in Arizona. If you go to hell, they'll tell you it's nicer down there. Lived with my dad, before he died. Mom had to leave to save the world several times. Guess it runs in the family, 'cause...former paladin of Voltron. Also a Blade of Marmora. An ambassador of the planet Daibazaal. No. Probably an ex-ambassador at this point." He tilts his head.  

Shiro's staring at their hands, still interlocked. Coughs. "I...I'm Takashi Shirogane. Fully human. Also grew up on Earth. Dad was never in the picture. My mom left, but for less noble reasons. Raised by my grandparents until I got a scholarship to go to this place called the Galaxy Garrison." 

"Oh, that sounds familiar," Keith says.  

"You..." Shiro begins, then shakes his head, gripping Keith's hand tighter and obviously trying to hide a smile. "Well, I'm also a former paladin of Voltron. Captain of the Garrison. Also an ex-ambassador, but of the planet Earth." He grows a bit more serious. "And I was a prisoner of war. And a clone. And a divorcee. Nearly died a few times, too. At least once. Sort of. It's complicated. But I'm trying to sort that all out now, wandering around the galaxy, taking some time to find myself." 

"That your ship over there?" 

"It is. She's called  _Atlas._ " 

"She got any room for an extra person?" 

Shiro raises his eyebrows, mock-frowning in concern. "But we barely know each other." 

This time, it's his turn to fight a smile. "I think I can handle myself, Shirogane. You're not the only one who's nearly died a few times."

"Then come along. And call me Shiro."

Keith takes both of Shiro's hands in his, presses them to his lips. "All right, Shiro. Now, let's go exploring." 

**Author's Note:**

> This is due to a brief thought of "what if Curtis, totally obliviously, asked Keith to have a threesome with him and Shiro"? 
> 
> And thus, this fic was born.


End file.
